Catalyst
by LegallyGem
Summary: Do you know what it is like to love someone so much you would give your own life for their deliverance?”
1. Confusion

**Disclaimer **  
(insert perky cheerleaders ' voice here)

"Dick! Dick! He's our man, if he won't do it, we all can:) :)

Okay so they're not mine, and never will be...i'd like to thank aforementioned Dick for letting me play with them. I'll give em back, I promise :)

**A/N:** Alrighty, so I've developed a story- posting anxiety disorder. I'm not sure about this one (or any others i've written for that matter) so feedback is appreciated. This is meant to be a three part series, but I'm gonna wait to hear what y'all think before I go ahead and post the next couple of chapters. Any grammatical errors or geographical ambiguities can be blamed on my current mental state of exhaustion and not my level of stoopidity :)

**Lower Manhattan**

The abandoned warehouse lies by the river, a decaying excuse for shelter in the sweepingly majestic metropolis that is New York City. Olivia sits behind the wheel of her car, and watches absentmindedly as the dust that floated with restrained violence into the air on her approach settles back into its resting place once more. Her mind wanders as she waits for her backup, and she finds herself thinking of Elliot. She feels incomplete without him by her side, like a lone poppy in a field of dandelions and it is a feeling she has become familiar with in these past months. When she thinks of him, Olivia feels as though they are walking a tightrope between confusion and clarity and her equilibrium is as precarious as a seedling in a cyclone. She knows he has tried desperately to maintain his foothold but that he is about to fall. She only hopes that when he does she will be strong enough to pull him back into balance.

She leans back, resting her head against the threadbare material encasing the headrest, closing her eyes and pushing the unsolicited thoughts from her mind. Now is not the time to ponder her partner's state of mind. Or hers. She has a job to do, and do it she will.

Instead, she thinks briefly of the events of the past few days and the reason she is here in this place, at this moment. She fixes her coffee-stained gaze on the worn timber structure before her - an amphitheatre of heartbreak - and she questions whether Shakespeare had ever imagined such a tragedy. She allows her eyes to trace the faded lavender letters adorning the rusted aluminum door. She knows that inside, lives a man who knows not the meaning of reason nor rationality.

Michael Thomas. The name ricochets around in her mind like a baseball at Yankee Stadium. He isn't like the others, but experience has taught her madness takes many forms. This particular permutation of degeneracy had sought justice for his love by contravening the law. She does not blame him for his actions, for she cannot say with certainty that she would not commit an equivalent act if their positions were reversed. She cannot imagine existing without her heart, and Michael Thomas cannot live without redemption for his.

An corporeal ache drips from memory and into the cavity of her chest, and she feels the familiar, transitory bitterness of sorrow rise inside her heart at the remembrance of Sarah Thomas's corpse, violated past restoration and bloated beyond recognition.

They had found her executioner but justice had been blind. She thinks of the jury's decision as a catalyst of sorts, the trigger of an invisible weapon crammed with bullets of emotional despair. She remembers how Michael Thomas had sat in stunned astonishment at the realization his life, his love, had died without vengeance. His emotions had percolated at the surface, an almost tangible snowballing hurricane of wrath that had caused him in the darkness of night to slay the perpetrator with a well-aimed blow to the cranium. The blood of one man sprayed in convoluted patterns on the wall at the hands of another. Both were guilty, but only one was to blame.

The approaching crunch of tyres on the rock-strewn path sluices into her ears and breaks her reverie. A glance in the rear view mirror tells her that the patrol car has arrived. She sighs briefly and moves from the car with liquid elegance, unprepared for the iciness of the air after the relative heat of her vehicular cocoon.

As she breathes she can see the warm air as it collides with the chill then dances away on the breeze. She reaches for the vest the uniform hands her, and checks the safety on her weapon. Instinct tells her to be alert, but it is the voice of experience that whispers peril in her ear. She knows Michael Thomas lurks with wretched anxiety inside the unsteady construction, and she thinks the aroma of his desperation is seeping through the devastated strips of lumber. When she speaks her voice is clear and strong, and she congratulates herself for a moment on cloaking her internal disquiet with external equanimity.

"Michael Thomas. This is Detective Benson. NYPD. Please show yourself."

The only sound she hears in response to the request is the distant honking of car horns as they cross the Brooklyn Bridge in their slow pilgrimage from suburban mediocrity to the swarming lunacy of the city.

"Mr. Thomas. Open the door now."

The answering silence allows Olivia a moment to exhale in frustration. In a perfect world, the door would swing open and an unarmed, compliant suspect would stand quietly while his rights were read and his hands were cuffed. She knows that no world, especially this one, is perfect and so she turns to look at the uniformed officers.

"Stay with me."

Olivia waits for their silent affirmative of understanding before she reaches for the door, curling her fingers around the worn metal handle and pulling gently. The answering groan as the hinges give way is loud in the comparative silence of the moment. Her arms stretch parallel to the dusty ground, her weapon ready as she places a booted foot inside the door and takes a step into the darkness.

In the next instant, the calm is violently shattered as the timber panel near the door is destroyed in an explosion of splinters, noise and confusion. The officers scramble for cover as another shot breaks the silence and the walls of the dilapidated building.

Later, Olivia will admit her next action is not her greatest choice. She could blame it on a need to diffuse the situation at hand or distraction caused partly by her partners' spiral into emotional stupor. Lord knows she has lost enough sleep recently. Whatever the excuse for her lack of judgment, she knows one thing is certain. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

She chooses not to join the officers behind their vehicle. Instead she moves further inside, pressing her back against the wall aiming her weapon at invisible adversaries in the gloomy crevices of the warehouse. She does not flinch as the door slams into place once more, severing her contact with the officers outside and shrouding the room in shadows. She knows that Michael Thomas is here in this room and can hear the panicked voices of the officers outside on communicating their situation to despatch, but she has never before felt so alone.

She hears the unmistakable click of a hammer as it falls into place, and she knows that somewhere in the shadows, beyond her left ear, there is bullet with her name etched on it. She turns towards the sound, an almost involuntary action borne of instinct and experience and she is met with the image of a man whose expression is overflowing with grief and whose spirit is drowning in sorrow. She knows the look - has seen it countless times before – and she feels a flutter of compassion for the events that have lead this man to this moment.

"Michael. Drop your weapon"

'Relax Detective, if I wanted to shoot you, I wouldn't have missed with the first two shots.' His voice is calm and detached, as though he has given up on life and he is now an automaton going through the motions of existence until his creator calls him home.

'Drop it. Drop it now. I will shoot you.'

The room is dark, but she can see the artificial red and blue lights bouncing through the windows and dancing with the dust that peppers the windowpanes below the rusted crown of the building. She wonders if Elliot is outside too, for she knows he will have heard the officer's call for backup. She knows he likes to think of himself as her protector, but Olivia does not need him to save her. She can do her job without him, but she misses his strength all the same. Like a cartoon superhero, she is almost invincible when he is by her side. Almost.

"I don't doubt it. Where's your partner?"

She thinks back to Elliot's response to the verdict that had lead to this moment, and although she refuses to draw hasty parallels between her partner and the man before her, she knows they are more similar than either would care to admit. Olivia had watched from a comfortable distance as Elliot comforted Michael, one devastated man to another and she knew in that moment each understood the other's pain. Both were standing in a world that had tilted off its axis neither knew how to restore it to orbit. She does not wish her suspect to know the direction of her thoughts, and so she swallows her emotion, hoping that he face remains as impassive as her tone when she responds.

"He's not here."

The mobile radio clipped to her belt makes a liar out of her as it crackles to life, the sound permeating the musty air inside the building. She hears a voice, distorted by noise but she knows it is her partner, as does the man standing in front of her. Olivia reaches a hand towards her belt, her gun never moving from its target, but a shake of her suspect's head has her ignoring Elliot's pleas for contact.

"That's crap, detective and you know it. He's always with you. Even without the radio he's here with you now."

She allows herself to meet his hazel gaze once more and a mild surprise is reflected in her own chocolate depths. She wonders whether he knows her thoughts, whether in her current state of confusion she is as transparent as the windows above her head, whether she actually does wear her heart on her sleeve. Her partner has certainly told her that often enough.

Why don't you go on outside, and see for yourself?"

She feels a semblance of unease as she stands there in the darkness, with a bullet aimed at her chest and an anxious man behind the trigger. She does not flinch, for she knows outward calm is vital. Her hand does not waver on her own weapon as she aims it in his direction, and he does not baulk at her suggestion. Instead, his lips curve in a humorless smile of hope that Olivia thinks would appear almost ridiculous in any other situation. In here it is an appropriate match for the confusion and sadness raging inside this man's heart.

"You're funny. Are you afraid of dying, detective?"

She ponders his question for a moment, and she thinks how ridiculous it is that she is having a conversation with this man, in this place. But she humors him nevertheless, for any outcome is preferable to the obvious finality of death. Whether it is his or hers, is not yet written. She feels almost sorry for him, for she is familiar with the loneliness and despair that has driven him to this time and place. She knows that actions will only enrage, or cause further desolation, so she placates him with simple words instead.

"No."

She does not tell a lie and watches him intently for a reaction, any response that will give her hope they can both walk out of here unharmed. Olivia thinks she sees his finger on the trigger waver just a bit and her own hand firms its grasp on her gun. She knows that she will shoot him to save herself and that she is not afraid to say farewell to this life. But she is terrified she has already said goodbye to Elliot.

"Do you know what it is like to love someone so much you would give your own life for their deliverance?"

_Yes. _She finds herself thinking of her partner, and wonders for a moment which of her synapses misfired to make the connection. Despite her confusion and his personal chaos, he has been the one constant in her existence. In that instant, she realizes with absolute certainty she would give her life to preserve his sanity and rescue his spirit. She is perplexed by this new direction of thought and knows there will be time for contemplation later. For the moment she deflects the question and maintains the external appearance of control.

'Michael, I'm not having this conversation with you. Drop your weapon."

"Humor me. Give me one more minute and then we'll end this little standoff."

She does not know why her head moves in a gesture of acquiescence, but for some strange reason she feels she owes him this much. He is a desperate man, but she realizes his destruction is internal. He will not harm her.

"You want some advice, detective?"

"No. I want you to drop your weapon."

Her response is instantaneous and although he ignores her request he smiles in the darkness, and she sees irony in his eyes as he begins to speak.

"If I could have one do-over, do you know what it would be? I would tell Sarah I loved her just one more time. We had an argument the night before, and we went to bed more confused than lucid. I didn't tell her I loved her when I left for work the morning she died, and I regret that more than you'll ever know. I don't regret what I did to the bastard who hurt her and I don't regret not being there to save her. I'm not so egotistical as to think I can change fate. Whatever you do, Detective Benson, don't let confusion and regret reign supreme in your life. Fight for your serving of clarity and don't ever let him go."

Olivia's eyes widen slightly at his words, and she thinks she knows what an epiphany feels like. She does not voice her realization but watches her suspect as he curls his fingers tightly around his weapon and places it to his left temple. His dark hair moves against the barrel in a proverbial battle between finality and certainty. She sees his finger move and knows with absolute confidence that he is ready to be with his wife once more. Olivia almost wants to let him go, for she knows that his existence from this moment on will be in spirit or in prison. Neither is the perfect solution and neither will bring his love back.

"Don't do it, Michael."

Despite her understanding, she knows what she must do and makes a token statement in a final attempt to end this situation without carnage

"What are you going to do, Detective Benson? Shoot me?"

Olivia aims her service revolver and fires. She watches with dispassionate grace as his eyes widen in a momentary expression of disbelief before he crumples like a house of cards. His weapon lay discarded at his side, and she moves quickly to stem the flood of dark cerise liquid flowing from the wound on his shoulder.

She lifts her radio from her belt and depresses the button with her free hand. She doesn't know who she is speaking to, but knows whoever is on the other end will hear only her commanding tone. Those who know her well will hear her words but know that her control is a fragile illusion.

"Suspect down. I need a bus in here. Now."

The rusted metal door slams open and a cacophony of sounds and coloured lights flood the darkness. In the next few moments the room begins to swarm with uniformed officers and EMS personnel.

Olivia stands wearily and wipes her palms on the dust-covered material of her jeans. She holsters her weapon and allows herself one final look at Michael Thomas before she walks towards the rusted metal entrance. She knows he may live, but it will be a shallow existence. He is only half a man without his heart.

She steps into the fading light of the day, and breathes in the crisp air as though the action itself will replenish her control and rebuild her imaginary armor. She knows where she is, but feels lost all the same and so she turns to look for direction.

She finds her compass amid the confusion and her chocolate eyes meet his cerulean gaze above the lights and noise. Olivia feels her increasingly precarious grasp on control begin to collapse as she moves towards him. She is heading east but she knows that in him she has found her north.

-------

(tbc? – please tell me whether you think it's worth continuing)


	2. Chaos

**Disclaimer **  
I'd like to thank the Academy. I'd like to thank Dick Wolf for not suing me, and Olivia and Elliot for letting me play with them on occasion. I'd like to thank Kathy for leaving and Fin for his Ghetto speak. Oh, and I'd like to thank Christopher Meloni for being so tasty :o)

**A/N:** Just a note to say thank you for all of the wonderful reviews, they have been very much appreciated, y'all are awesome :o) This next part is meant to run kinda parallel with the first chapter. I have agonized over every single word and I have my reservations, but I hope that it works in the way it is intended. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the issue. Hope you like it :o)

**Lower Manhattan**

Elliot arrives at the scene in a blustering whirlwind of confusion, chaos and desperation. He has, like the others, heard the call. Ten-thirteen. Shots fired. Elliot knows what it means and he knows somewhere in this nightmare a cop is in trouble. His cobalt gaze sweeps the scene before him, searching for a semblance of his partner. He thinks he sees her in the distance, a dark head bent conversing with an associate and he imagines her eyes sparkling with concern as she speaks to the person. Like a wave crashing against the shore, he feels relief flow through his veins as his consciousness sends a joyous message to his soul that she is unharmed.

The trouble with waves is that they abate almost as quickly as they rise.

He takes only a few steps towards her before he realizes it is not Olivia, and he wonders how he could have made such an error. Her hair does not catch the light in quite the same way, and her eyes do not shine with the same compassion. Had he been thinking with his head and not his heart he would have recognized these discrepancies immediately. He had wanted it to be her, and for an instant at least, his sentient mind had obeyed the command of its subconscious master.

With a sigh of irritation he turns his gaze from this woman and continues his search. He moves toward a pocket of vehicles and a scattering of uniformed officers, determined to understand what is happening here at this chaotic scene and praying to all the deities of heaven and earth that he will find the answers he seeks so that his world can be righted onto its axis once more.

"What the hell happened?"

He speaks the words with the rabid desperation reserved for a dying man, and he resists the urge to coil his fingers in the starched collar of an officer indolently positioned beside a patrol car. It is unfathomable to him how calm can co-exist with anarchy, and he wants nothing more than to shake him into movement as though the action alone will cause his partner to appear somewhere in these disordered surroundings.

Frustration bubbles inside Elliot's chest like lava in an erupting volcano. The uniform does not get a chance to answer as he feels strong fingers curl around his shoulder. He needs it to be her, and he thinks he would sell his soul for it. He wants the dread clawing at his stomach to be borne of pointless concern, but he does not need to turn around to know the hand belongs to someone else. He turns and his gaze is met by his colleague's solemnly impassioned expression.

"Where is she?"

He does not need to qualify the statement; Fin knows he speaks of their Olivia.

"She's inside. With your perp. Uni's said she went in after the first shot. No contact since."

If his feet were not so firmly planted in the dust, he could be forgiven for thinking he is falling from the heavens above. He feels as though he is plummeting to earth and he urgently wants to pull the cord on his parachute of calm and halt this tumble into terror.

He knows that he is living, and that air is making its journey from throat to lung, but he feels as though he is gasping for breath in a world gone mad.

He can feel the desperation tearing at his chest, creating haphazardly gaping wounds in his conscious soul. Like the proverbial knight in shining armor he is ready to ride into battle and bring his damsel home and he almost laughs at the ridiculousness of his contemplation. If there is but one truth in his erroneous universe, it is that Olivia is no damsel in distress. He wants to save her all the same - protect her from pain and deliver her from evil. Elliot knows without any real thought that he would give his life for her salvation, but he will never tell her so. She would roll her eyes and think him foolish. And then she would kick his ass.

His charge into battle is halted with a firm hand on his chest and a caution from his colleague. He does not wish to hear the words, but he is grateful for the reality check all the same.

"Hold up, Elliot. You're not gonna do her any favors running in there like that Day-Lewis dude."

He knows his friend speaks the truth, but the knowledge does little to assuage the fear creeping stealthily through his heart.

Elliot thinks of the one who holds his Olivia inside the pathetic refuge, a desperate individual avenging the death of his love. He remembers the almost touchable rivers of rage permeating from Michael Thomas after the verdict. He could see the unconquerable mountain of devastation faced by a man who had lost his heart and soul.

Loss. It is a strange word, yet it is as familiar to him as the lines on his face. He has watched victims and their families deal with it in varying degrees and incarnations, but he had been unprepared for the epic chasm of hurt that appeared when loss tore his own life apart.

His wife had not died as Sarah Thomas had, but he had lost her all the same. When he thinks of Kathy it is a deep abiding ache, a poignant emptiness in his heart that cannot be replaced, but will heal in time. He understands why she left, but it does not make her decision any easier to accept. He had chosen his job over his family, and she couldn't forgive that. Truth be told, he couldn't blame her.

He is angry with himself over the demise of his family, the jagged incision left in its wake has permitted temporary passage to a swell of unimpeded fury into his heart. He thinks once more of Michael, and although he does not like it, Elliot can see himself mirrored in the hazel windows to their suspect's shattered soul.

He wonders now where such emotional intensity comes from and when his own rage began to take over his existence. He has spent months looking to place blame, existing amid a black cloud of despair that has pushed his heart to the limit and his control to breaking point. There have been days since his life fell to pieces when he thought death preferable to his living hell. Those were the moments that he sought solace in her strength, when he looked to her for guidance as though she were his lone connection to reality.

He knows Olivia has been reaching for him, but he has not yet been able to find purchase on her metaphorical lifeline. She cannot not bring his marriage back to him for the illusion of domesticity has long since danced away on the breeze but he knows if he reaches into the darkness she will grab his hand and pull him back into the light.

When he thinks of her, he sees truth and beauty that transcends the physical. She knows him well and gives his soul the clarity he needs to move forward despite the sadness and confusion in his world. He shares a part of himself with her that his wife had never been privy to and although he knows silence is to blame for the loss in his life, he will never apologize for it. He would walk through hell and fire to protect the ones he loved. It is who he is and always will be.

In that instant he does not know if there will ever be a world without war or who will win the next Superbowl, but he does know one thing is certain. He has lost so much already. He'll be damned if he loses her too.

Although he knows the gesture is futile, he reaches for the radio in Fin's hand. He depresses the button and speaks to his heart with urgency, demanding a response and praying for a sign. He knows she can hear his voice and he listens in hope, but the answering static gives him no solace.

Deep in his personal quagmire of reflection, he does not notice Fin watching the gamut of expressions running across his face. Elliot thinks of him as both colleague and friend yet he does not share his life with the man before him. He knows that beneath the weathered face there exists the astuteness of someone who has spent too many years on the job and has long since seen it all. Even so, his next words are as unexpected as a cold day in July.

"You love her, don't you?"

_Yes._ The knowledge hits him like an eastbound express train, although it is not unexpected collision. He thinks somewhere in his consciousness he has always known but never acknowledged. He is not a vocal advocate of Darwinian theory, but in that moment he believes in evolution. He thinks of their shifting to be such a gradual process that it has almost passed by unnoticed and he imagines this moment to be a catalyst of sorts. Like a caterpillar to a butterfly, he climbs out of the cocoon and realizes he has wings.

He cannot pinpoint the exact moment he fell out of love with his wife and in love with her. It has been a gradual engagement, like the transition from dawn to dusk, natural and inevitable. He curves his lips in a derisive smile of paradoxical sadness, and he thinks it typical of himself that it takes a modicum of doom to bring calm to the pandemonium of his soul. She is his truth, the nucleus of his volatile universe. In that, there is no mistake.

He does not respond to the question, for he knows it is rhetorical in tone. The answer is painted in the clouds and stars and his eyes for all to see, and with the solution he feels that he has progressed along his dark tunnel of despair and towards a playground of light.

It is exhilarating, this new found understanding, but it is useless to him whilst she is not by his side. His gaze is returned to the broken structure that forms the centerpiece of this chaotic scene, and he hopes it is not too late to nail the remains of the building and his life into place once more.

He has waged many a war in recent months but as hope begins a desperate battle with disaster in his heart, he realizes that for the first time he is uncertain which emotion will triumph. He will fight for her, yet he wonders how his soul can survive the combat when his spirit is inside an abandoned warehouse with an unreasonable man and a gun.

He freezes as the sound of a gunshot permeates the air.

It is as if everything is in slow motion, a muddled cacophony of light, sound and movement. He sees the other cops at the scene aim their weapons and he hears the flustered tones as they shout instructions to each other while moving for cover.

Elliot stands like an anchor in this chaotic sea, motionless and unsure of whether he should breathe or beg. He is a proud man, yet he would crawl on his knees through desert and snow if it meant he could have her safe by his side once more. And he knows without qualification that if the angels take her from him now, then his life is over too.

He doesn't realize he is holding his breath until he hears her voice over the radio. To the untrained ear, her tone is command laced with caramel, but he knows that beneath the composed exterior there is a surfeit of emotions creating divergences in her heart.

He wants to be there with her, inside the decaying building. He needs to see her more than tomorrow's sunrise and so he moves through the turmoil and towards his salvation. When he sees her silhouette framed in the doorway it is like a bonfire of hope for the embers of his battered soul.

Her eyes meet his above the chaos and below the sorrow, and he thinks he sees her chin tremble just a little as she seeks solace in his imagined strength. He watches, as she stands there, unmoving in the heart of confusion, the white print on her navy vest blemished with the telltale crimson stain of death.

In that moment he wants nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and absorb her hurt, because he knows she is about to break. He allows himself an epigrammatic examination and he fights the urge to count her fingers and toes, just to check. She catches him in his clandestine operation and she smiles through her fatigue. She knows that he loves to play protector, and he loves that she knows him so completely.

"Liv. You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

She does not need to elaborate; yet he can't help but wonder if her exhaustion is borne of the events or of him. He prays she is not ready to give up on them just yet.

They look up as Fin exits the building, pausing briefly at their place in the dust to extol Olivia's fortitude in the face of adversity.

"Looks like homegirl here took his punk ass down. Bullet through the shoulder."

He moves off and away, like a dark shepherd in search of his flock, the lights creating comfortingly sinister patterns on the leather of his jacket. And then they are alone once more.

Elliot takes a chance, placing a finger beneath her chin, and tipping her head up to meet his gaze once more. Sapphire and toffee convene and merge in the space of an instant, and although he knows her thoughts and her heart as well as she knows his, he asks the question all the same. The detective in him needs the verbal verification.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Shut up Stabler, you're gonna make me cry."

He sees the truth of her statement as her eyes fill with the moisture of unshed tears and he watches as she tries desperately to keep the tidal wave of emotions at bay. He cannot define the source of her distress, for although she has been through much tonight he knows that circumstances alone are not enough to push her to breaking point.

He wants to ask her what it is that has caused her pain, yet he does not think he is ready to hear her response. Instead, he runs his hands underneath the dark circles of her eyes and along her jaw, as though the action could magically erase her invisible wounds.

In the next instant the sound of a siren punctures the moment and bursts it like a balloon at a children's party. He allows his arms to drop temporarily back to his side, before placing a hand on her back in his routinely insentient gesture of protection.

"Come on homegirl, I'll take your punk ass home."

He hears her answering laughter and the intensity of the minute before is forgotten for now. The sound is like a symphony to his tired heart, and he knows that for the first time in months her amusement is genuine. He thinks it happily peculiar that during such chaos, clarity can seep through the hurt and find a place to plant the seed of hope. Her mirth is like a lifeline, and with that simple sound she gives him the strength to believe in the future. Elliot Stabler knows that there is no greater gift than that.

------------

tbc?


	3. Clarity

**Disclaimer:**

Thanks for letting me play, Dick, it's been fun.

A/N: Okay, so here it is folks. Kinda moves around from Olivia and Elliot's points of view, so I hope it works. Again, I agonized over every word...this writing thing is exhausting :o) Apologies for the ending - they made me do it :o) Thanks to all of you who have taken time to review, your feedback is much appreciated:o) - That said, read on - I really hope it doesn't bite the big one, and that y'all enjoy it :o)

**Manhattan**

Olivia sits by his side as they drive to her apartment across town. Her eyes focus here and there on familiarities of the landscape as it passes by her window in a blur of color and light. The places are all known to her, yet it is as though she sees them for the first time.

Her gaze slides away from the window and towards her partner. Like a moth to a flame she is drawn to his strength, and although his face is impassive she is reminded of the emotion glittering in his eyes earlier tonight. Olivia looks at him every day, but it is the first time she has seen her partner in a long time and she realizes how much she has missed him.

She moves her eyes to the scenery once more, and the interior of the car is silent as it moves along the streets. Neither feels the need to speak, for both are lost in their own world of revelation. She doesn't notice the car slow or Elliot get out of the vehicle and so she jumps slightly in surprise as he opens her door. In normal circumstances she would have called him on such a gesture, however tonight she is grateful. Chivalry may be dead, but gallantry lives on in their slice of the world.

There is no need to ask him up. Even though he has not been her Elliot in a while, some things will never change. They climb the steps silently, and he waits as she fumbles inside her coat for her keys.

Olivia opens her apartment door and he holds it for her as she moves inside, following her before closing them off from the troubles of the world outside. She watches as he removes his coat and throws it haphazardly along the back of her sofa. She turns to him as he breaks the silence, and sees storm clouds brewing behind the crystal beauty of his eyes. Olivia sighs as he speaks, dropping into her couch and sinking into its comfortable embrace.

"Liv?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you tired?"

"No. I'm fine Elliot. Want a beer?"

Her tone tells him she speaks fallacy rather than fact, but he lets it slide for now. Instead, he nods a brief assent to her query observing as she moves towards her refrigerator in search of liquefied fortitude. As he watches, he finds himself wondering how she can make the most simplistic of actions seem so gracefully beautiful. He does not realize he is going to speak, but the words tumble from his lips before he even registers them in his consciousness . He is as surprised as she is at their presence in the darkened room.

"I mean, are you tired of me?"

It is an almost unexpected question, and she glances up at him in momentary bewilderment, tracing the lines of his face with her eyes before meeting his gaze with her own. Ambiguity floats in the sapphire sea of his eyes and she thinks how unlike it is for him to let her see his uncertainty. Like a sentinel standing watch over the castle of emotion, he does not often let his guard down for fear of attack. Olivia sees her brave soldier's momentary lapse in concentration, and so she seizes the chance to enter the fort hoping desperately that he will not turn her away.

"Why would you ask me that?"

He sighs at her enquiry, as though the thought of telling her is too much of a burden for him to bear. He knows that she has seen the uncertainty clouding his soul but he does not think he is ready to share his true weakness, for now he know he knows his weakness is her.

Olivia feels his metaphorical movement away from her, and although it is a familiar feeling, she is not willing to let him go this time. It is like a dance - a to and fro movement that has one over the precipice and the other on solid ground. The positions change, but the steps are the same. Like a waltz, she knows the moves like she understands her own heart and she knows how it ends. Yet this time it is different, for she will not let him teeter on the edge any longer.

"I should go."

She watches as he stands, pacing the room like a tiger inside a constricted cage before he turns towards the door as though the action will provide him with a means of escape from his tortured existence. She knows he wants to run, for she recognizes the gesture and lord knows Olivia has had much experience with that particular inclination. This time is different and so she stands her ground preparing herself for the impending battle.

He leans his head against the tired timber and he thinks the distance between them in this moment is like a gaping chasm of silent questions and unrequited emotions. Like a hammock in a hurricane, his soul is twisting precariously between security and oblivion and like their natural creator he knows only she has the power to halt the storm and bring calm to his world once more.

He hears the whisper of her feet on the polished wood as she comes to him, his angel of the earth and the only one who can bring clarity to his uncertain heart. He feels her warmth as she leans against him and the uncertainty drains from his body like water through a sieve. Her hands sit on his waist; as though the action will hold him still long enough to face his fears, before she trails her fingers down his arms to meet with his. He thinks the movement to be almost symbolic, a unification of sorts and he wonders why he had chosen to wander in a personal desert of despair when the oasis had been in front of him all along.

The room is silent save for their breathing, and the expected and habitual ticking of the clock. He does not resist as she tugs his hand gently pulling him away from exodus and towards endurance. He follows her willingly, for she knows he cannot refuse her anything.

They sink together, side by side into the relative comfort of her sofa, not breaking their physical bond but not complicating it either. There are a myriad of words and emotions whirling out of control inside her mind and the room is still while she waits for the internal storm to abate. She trusts her consciousness to form coherent sentences, for her heart is beating too fast to be of any help to her tonight. When she speaks, she is almost surprised at her choice of words but knows that he needs to hear her heart before he can give her his soul.

"Do you know what he said to me tonight?"

Elliot does not need to ask whom she is talking about, for he knows the troubles of Michael Thomas still weigh heavily in their hearts.

"What?"

"He asked me if I had ever loved someone so much that I would die for them."

"Jesus. What did you say?"

"Nothing. But I thought about it."

Elliot Stabler is fearful of only a handful of things in this world. Losing a child, losing Olivia and losing his mind. He has come close to all three in one way or another these past months, and he is terrified his next question will again bring fear to the forefront, but he asks the question all the same. He is a detective and he deals in facts and inferences every day. He has never before been scared of the answer but this is not a perp, this is his partner and this is not a case he is trying to solve. It is his future.

"Have you?"

"What?"

"Ever loved someone so much you'd die for them?"

Olivia lifts her eyes from their fascinated investigation of the cracks and marks of her living room wall. She drops her gaze and studies their linked fingers for a moment, knowing what it is he is asking, and wondering if the connection alone is enough to give her the courage to answer. She knows now what a moment of truth feels like, and she does not have the energy left to lie. She leans forward, resting her dark head against his chest, as though hearing the broken beating of his heart will give her the strength she needs to stand still long enough to forget her uncertainties and walk with him into the future. Olivia doesn't know what tomorrow will bring but she has been given the chance to save him and despite her own fears, save him she will. She knows that she has already fallen, and so she takes a deep breath and leaps off the metaphorical cliff of faith with a final, silent plea. _Catch me Elliot. _

"Yes, I have. I do. Every day."

With her words, Elliot feels his hollow heart turn over in his chest as it begins to beat in a cadence of hope once more. He tightens his arms around her, and catches her as she falls. And just like that, confusion and chaos exit the stage of his heart and clarity makes its grand entrance into the theatre. He wants to leap to his feet and give the performers a standing ovation, but he knows now is not the place. He twists slightly on the sofa, meeting her eyes with his and seeing the truth of her words reflected in her dark eyes. He wonders how he could have looked at her every day and tonight he thinks he sees her for the first time. He sees the lines on her face and the way her hands look like they were destined to link with his. He sees the chain on her neck proclaiming her lack of fear and the crimson stains marring the perfect periwinkle of her sweater. He is reminded of their mortality and how close he came to losing the center of his universe.

"I almost lost you today."

He whispers, afraid to speak the words out loud as though verbalization makes them the truth. Regardless of the volume, his words bring reality crashing into their fragile refuge like a wave to the shore. She can hear the desperation in his tone and feels hope enter her heart like a perfectly aimed arrow from Cupid's bow. She smiles into his chest, and feels him pull her closer in response. She knows he doesn't expect an answer, yet as always she feels the need to give him solace in any way she can.

"Elliot, you're not gonna lose me."

He sighs in a barely audible exhalation of relief as he hears her words. He had not realized he had been holding onto his breath, waiting to hear her tell him she will be by his side always and forever. He wonders when he had become so unsure of himself, whether it had been before his wife left him or after he does not know, but he realizes now that it has always been Olivia. Elliot knows that he has been a performer these past few months, hiding his hurt behind externalized calm and internalized rage. The anger dissipates like water in the sun as his spirit hears her words, and he squeezes her hand, running a thumb along the soft skin of her inner wrist. It is an absent-minded action and he questions whether the gesture is an affirmation of life or to remind himself that she is here with him unharmed. Perhaps it is both.

He does not know how many seconds pass by before she untangles her fingers from his, but he feels the loss like his soul has been split in two.

"I'm gonna go get changed."

He watches as she extricates herself from their labyrinth of hands and limbs on the sofa. He hears her bedroom door close quietly behind her and the room is silent once more. Like an anthology of stories, his mind is another tale altogether and his subconscious is screaming a litany of commands in his ear. He prays for the fortitude to tell his heart he is incomplete without her but like a child with stage fright at a school recital his conscious mind will not form the words. It his insentient mind that completes the task for him.

_"I love you."_

She doesn't know how long she has been watching the axis of her world battle with his demons on her sofa, but as she observes him from her place in the doorway, his words seep through her reverie and into her consciousness like a magical salve for the wounds of her heart. Like a knight in tarnished armor he may not be faultless, but he is hers and she thinks that she can see the shine begin to fight its way through the stain of despair that has kept his heart from her for so long.

"Elliot?"

He hadn't heard her emerge from her haven, nor had he realized the words had flowed from his consciousness and through his lips until he hears her voice permeate the opaque air, filling the room with hope and his soul with light. Like the lion in his children's favorite movie, it seems that his journey has ended and he has been granted the courage he wished for.

"Yeah?"

He ends the inspection of her coffee table and allows his eyes to meet hers in the semi-darkness. She does not speak for a moment, and he uses her silence to let his gaze traverse the nuances of her face, lingering here and there as though he is examining an impressionist's masterpiece. Elliot knows that neither Rembrandt nor Monet could have ever painted something so intrinsically flawless. To him, she is perfect.

"Get your punk ass over here and prove it."

Elliot Stabler is not one to leave a challenge unanswered, and so he is out of his seat and in her arms in less than a heartbeat. The distance from sofa to doorway takes but a second, but as he feels her arms close around him he can't help but think it has taken him a lifetime to get here. In that moment, Olivia knows that dawn has broken over his endless night and that he has come home to her. She sighs as he glances his lips over hers and it is a feather like touch, as though she is the most precious of china dolls and he is fearful of marring her with his sullied touch. Olivia refuses to allow him any such thoughts, and so she pulls him up and over his imaginary cliff away from oblivion, into the light and far away from the treacherous edge.

"That all you got?"

He smiles into her lips at her tone, and he knows she is attempting mirth to lighten the enormity of the events of this night. Her emotional moments are usually borne of turmoil and anguish and she is not one for sentimental dalliances. Such things make her uncomfortable and disturb her carefully controlled equilibrium. She has brought symmetry to his world more times than he can count and he knows it is her that he has to thank for his salvation, so he chooses to return the favor.

"Quiet, woman. I'm trying to prove something here."

Olivia wants to tell him he has already proven it to her, a million times over. She wants to tell him that it is in the smile he gives for no reason, the coffee he brings when he knows she is nearing exhaustion, and the way he always has her back. She wants him to know that he shows her love each and every day. Instead, she allows him the opportunity to attest to his declaration as she rests in his embrace. Like the hopeful heroine in a paperback novel she knows what a happy ending feels like. And, as he leans his head towards hers once more, prove it he does.

End :o)


End file.
